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This man-child, I swear.
I locate the clean sheets in the cupboard and meticulously change them. I manage to support his stupidly muscled body against my shoulder, then drop him on the bed.
Through it all, he doesn’t even groan. Deep sleeper, it is.
He sprawls his legs all over the super king-sized bed and uses his hand as a pillow. His hair spreads out on the sheet like silk, and I can’t help ghosting my hand over it before I pull the blanket over him.
I pause when I see my dried cum on his stomach. I should probably clean that…
No. I like the sign of ownership.
After I cover him, I shove the old sheets into the washing machine and then hit the cold cycle.
Once that’s done, I hunt for my clothes and put them on. For some reason, I find my feet leading me back to the bedroom like a magnet. I stand at the entrance, staring at Nikolai.
A part of me wants to stay, maybe not in the same bed since that’s…strange, I suppose. But just around.
That contemplation shatters when the image from earlier comes back like a curse and I physically force myself to walk to the lift.
This small moment of pleasure is all the reprieve my demons can offer.
I can’t let him see me like this.
And he won’t.
Because I’m fuckingfine.
17
NIKOLAI
Iknew something was fucking wrong when I woke up in bed.
Me? In a fuckingbed?
Hello, Satan. This is Kolya reporting live from somewhere in hell and telling you to kindly fuck off. We’re not ready to go yet.
I blink a few times and the room, that’s definitely not some edgy hellhole, comes into view.
The penthouse…?
I sit up with a sudden jerk, all sleep disappearing from my eyes.
Nah, fuck no. I was clearly sitting outside the bathroom waiting for Bran to finish his shower and then…what? I don’t remember going to bed.
Iwouldn’tgo to bed or cover myself, not even if I were drunk. That’s just blasphemy.
My face breaks into a grin. Does this mean Bran carried me to the bed? I inspect the clean sheets that I certainly didn’t change and yup, definitely him. He’s organized to the point of being a bit neurotic. Or a lot, depending on your definition of the word.
Now, I want to kick myself in the ass for not feeling him carry me, wrap his arms around me, and cover me. Fuck. I’m getting hard at the thought.
My Prince Charming is actually stronger than he looks. Even Jeremy and my cousins don’t carry or move me when I fall asleep in unusual places or situations.
The images of him touching and placing me up here are muddied by the other lingering thought. I stand up and don’t bother putting any clothes on as I stride to the living room. “Lotus flower?”
I know he’s not there before I search. There’s no trace of his clothes, his presence, or anything remotely similar. If it weren’t for the itch he left beneath my skin last night, I wouldn’t think he’d been here. He even washed the sheets that carried his scent, as if he wanted to erase what happened from memory.
Not fucking possible.
